“No fucking way I’m emailing it to anyone, sorry, not even you.”
“Only the last part. You can edit it with QuickTime first.”
Rich shook his head. “No can do. Internet’s not turned on yet. So no Wi-Fi either.”
“Hm.” Olly pondered his options only for a second. “This’ll have to do, then.” He rewound the clip to the spot where the cameraman turned around, and recorded the clip from there with his phone. When he was done, he stood and watched Rich slip the DVD out of the laptop and hide it under the mattress again. “Might wanna put on clean jeans if we’re gonna go out and meet people,” he said, unlocking the door.
Chapter Six
The office of Brian Jones Studios was in an unassuming, two-story gray building next to a nail salon on Vineland Avenue. They found a parking spot right up front. The place had sort of a storefront but no name above, and the door was locked. The single window was shuttered and, judging from the amount of dust and dead flies behind the glass, had been for a long time. A small sign in the corner of the window said: Use Rear Entrance.
Olly chuckled. “If we must.”
“Stop it,” Rich snapped at Olly, but he couldn’t stop the images popping into his head. Ever since Olly told him the tattoo story, he was picturing Olly naked and bent over a tattoo chair, lily-white ass ready for the taking. The vision shouldn’t have made him as hot and bothered as it did. He had the excuse of being stoned the first time, but there it was again. Olly had the disturbing effect of waking in him urges he’d thought long buried and forgotten.
Olly stared at him. “Are you all right? You look flushed.”
“I’m fine. Let’s go.”
They were right by the corner, so they simply walked around to the alley. The parking lot behind contained two cars and a small truck—no company name on it either. Discretion must’ve been a concern when working in porn. The back door was locked too, but Rich kept banging on it till he heard the lock turn.
A middle-aged woman regarded them with clear distrust. “What do you want?”
Rich stepped forward. “Hi. I’m Richard, and this is my friend Olly. We wonder if we could talk to Mr. Jones. We were told he’d be here.”
Her suspicion softened a smidgen, and she looked them over. “We’re not having auditions.”
For a moment, Rich was taken aback by her assumption, but he saw his opening. “Are you sure? We were told Mr. Jones would see us. We drove all the way from West Hollywood.”
Olly didn’t say a word, only turned his big puppy-dog eyes on her.
The woman vacillated. “Linda, who is it?” Rich heard a male voice shout from upstairs.
She turned her gaze to the right and up. “Two men here. I told them we’re not having auditions today,” she said in a raised voice.
After a moment of silence, Rich heard the man shout, “Bring them up!”
As they stepped inside, Rich saw a room shrouded in darkness. Through the gloom, he could make out large black boxes on wheels. The lights were on upstairs, showing a Spartan reception room with white walls, desk and filing cabinets. The woman took her seat behind the desk but kept her eyes on them.
A man with close-cropped blond hair stood by her desk and surveyed them with appraisal in his eyes. Rich estimated his age at early fifties. He seemed like someone who worked out a lot, though not as fit as he had once been.
To Rich’s complete surprise, Olly let out a squeal. “Oh my God! You’re Brian Rockwell! I’ve whacked off to your Cock Wars Episode I: The Dildo Menace more times than I can count.” He thrust out his hand. “My name’s Olly Blackwood, and this is Richard—”
“Willson. With to L’s,” Rich interjected. He figured Olly wouldn’t know he and Sandy didn’t have the same last name. He silently prayed Olly and this Brian person would stop yakking about cocks.
Their host’s expression split into a pleased grin, and he shook their hands. He had a strong grip. “You’re too young to remember Cock Wars,” he said, turning back to Olly.
“Oh, it’s a classic,” Olly replied.
The guy appeared even more pleased. “Well, it was one of my best works. It’s nice to know young people still appreciate it. I haven’t performed in years. I go by Brian Jones these days. Rockwell was my stage name. But call me Brian.” He led them down a corridor to his office. This room was better decorated, with photographs hanging from the wall and shelves stuffed with DVDs.
“How old are you?” he asked Olly as they sat down.
“Twenty-two,” Olly replied.
“Has either of you acted in porn before? Xtube?”